


That Divine Demon

by mautadite



Category: The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps - Kai Ashante Wilson
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: That morning, at Mother of Waters.





	That Divine Demon

**Author's Note:**

> I loved _The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps_ when I read it years ago, and I loved it possibly even more when I reread it earlier this year. This is pretty much just a love letter to being gay and black, to Kai Ashante Wilson’s writing, which I adore and tried to conjure up without directly emulating it, and to two characters whom I think about all the time.
> 
> Also, there’s fuckin’.

Settled though he was to whiling the long hot hours of the morning away on his lonesome, stewing away in his thoughts, sucking on those hurts like rock salt, Demane was too much of a man, and too much of a simple one at that, not to shoot up into a sitting position and stare as the Captain came slipping through the underbrush to join him. 

Dawn was creeping through the leaves, stealing through every crevice, and every particle of light seemed to yearn after the Captain’s skin, waiting for their chance to eat up some of that godhood. Lips already parting to smile the smile that he’d be wearing for hours to come, Demane reached out a hand. And aw man, he could straight up write a treatise on the sublimeness of the joy he felt to have that hand grasped immediately; no flicker of eyes, no worrying glance, no subtle sway of lithe limbs to say, _“No D, not now.”_ Just sweet, instant acceptance. Demane tugged him forward.

There was a kiss waiting for him there on those lips, like an offering of fruit laid before a temple, mango and orange and passion fruit squeezed into a sweet melange. Before partaking of those ambrosiac victuals however, there were other matters to consider. His finger traced the streaks of sunlight on the Captain’s skin, pathways of gold on a field of bronze, until he was cupping that beloved face. Last night’s blood had been washed away in the Mother of Waters, leaving long clean lines of skin that begged to be touched, cheekbones like cliffs, lips like softest pillows. His right eye, still swollen, was now the size of a cherry rather than a plum, and his other bruises were fading into ancient history. Demane touched the faint marks, on shoulders and arms and chest. Captain didn’t scar, but Demane would remember the placement of every cut.

And he knew now, too, the wherefores of their most hated provenance. Faedou’s words echoed around in his head.

“Isa,” he started, “at the fight house…”

Snakelike, Captain shook his head. That damn scarf, tight as any old thing, was firmly in place, and its ends whisked across Captain’s shoulders like some third Sea-john lover tryna squeeze in on the action. Captain shrugged his shoulders out of his robe, let it fall to his waist like a thick second belt. Sunlight danced through the trees and alighted, joyfully, on the thin planes of his chest. His nipples stood to attention, like they knew that the mouth that loved them was nearby, and attending well.

“Not now, Demane,” the Captain sang. “You can sit here talking to me, or you can love me.”

Ultimatum most fiendish! Demane’s eyes were already roving across Captain’s chest, and as he watched, his lover shifted so that he was sitting astride Demane’s lap. Legs slid, hips rolled, heat grew. He wasn’t even _trying_ to play fair. 

Demane swallowed, hands trailing down to Captain’s sides. Everything that he’d planned to say, about the fight house, about Kaffalah’s warning, fell away.

“Ain’t much of a choice, when I do one of them all the time anyway.”

Smile like that put stars to shame. The accustomed veneer was slipping, that constant control the Captain had to exercise to keep his godliness in check. Forget mixed blood; right now he looked and smelled like one directed descended from the Towers, divinity dripping off of him like sweat. Demane’s heart was all in a clench. This man had come to _him_.

“That kind of talk will get you everywhere,” Captain said, and kissed him.

Nothing like the quick kiss in the crowd, all those stolen lip-locks along the road, preceded and followed by watchful eyes around them, to make sure no one had seen what they shouldn’t. Naw this was the main course, a _startin’ somethin’_ kinda deal, a kiss Demane would print across his eyelids so he could come back to it on warm nights where mosquitoes whined, the brothers pressed close, and the Captain kept his distance. Bees working overtime, honey oozing out the comb kinda kiss.

Demane’s mouth worked and his hands squeezed: sides, pectorals, ass when he reached round to it. Every bit that the Captain gave back breathed life into him, gave him that heat. His dick was so hard and hot, felt like it might burn through his trousers and start the action without him. Never one to cage his words when they’d do just as well running free on the currents of the air, Demane said what he felt between feverish presses of their lips.

“You feel so good Isa.” _Kiss._ “So damn good.” _Kiss._ “Feel like I might die if I on’ get in you right quick.” A long wet one, Captain’s hands grasping for his hair, curling in the coils. The shiver that he gave… man, Demane felt it all the way down to his _ankles_.

“Well then.” Captain’s breath came in bursts, puffing across his face, sweet as – what’d Cumalo call it? – sugar. “I like you alive, so let’s not dawdle.”

Demane got himself two good handfuls of ass (and as a side note: _damn!_ For a man so skinny and spare Captain had a hind on him fit to make a brother cry. Smooth, shapely, all that) and flipped their positions, got the Captain all laid out on a bed of soft grass. Clothes melted away, swept off with quick touches.

“You got any…?”

“In my robes.”

Bottle palmed, Demane fell to his business. Raw kisses went long and deep, like they were trying to make a Captain-shaped imprint in the grass. Brown nipples, like berries of the earth, were caressed, sucked, nibbled to spear-points and toyed with until Demane scented desire so thick in the air it might have been another brand of that Demon. He watched his big hands, dark and solid, wrapping around the slim muscled waist, and got hot with it, with the wanting of him.

All the while, Captain sighed, crooned little words sotto voce, each utterance a thing of beauty. Not a vulgar thing about him, not even in the very throes. When Demane caught hold of his manhood and sucked the tip, where another man might have said something profane, the Captain only sang higher, in the voice he kept for when they were alone. Straight up angelic.

Demane unstopped the bottle, poured a measure of oil onto his hand. He gave himself a quick squeeze to staunch his desire, ease the ache, and that detour made, got right back on track. If he took too long, Captain was like to start making noises about how they could skip all this, he could take it, he liked how big Demane was. Demane wasn’t trying to hear any of that, never was, no matter how bad he wanted it. The Captain was hard enough on himself, so Demane would be gentle enough for the both of them.

‘Sides, he liked doing it.

Sweet thighs, spread to the point of straining; Demane could feel the tension in the muscle. They looked into each other’s eyes as Demane’s forefinger made the first breach, and the Captain’s lips parted. The arousal was a twinning thing, felt across both bodies. _The heat of him!_ Demane worked that finger slowly, his other hand mapping the curvature of the country where hip turned to ass then took a long meandering path into miles of thigh. Captain’s chest rose and fell, the spots of wet that Demane had left on his nipples still visible.

“Come now, man.” His words were birdsong; they warbled. He rolled his hips and clenched down on the finger. “Hurry.”

“’m going as fast as I can, baby,” Demane teased, and oh, if it was a little bit of torture to make himself wait, with was worth it to hear that musical groan, feel the arch of those hips, smell the want oozing off of him. He pulled out, made sure his middle finger was all slicked up, and upon re-entry there were two fingers sliding into that tightness, making the Captain tremble. Demane’s fingers were big but so was his dick, so he slowly made his way up to three digits, fingering him oh so very gently, until the Captain’s movements were like a dance. 

Demane bit his lip. The word beauty shied away from this man, like an old village queen who sees a nubile young rival come fresh down off the mountains, and knows that it is finally time to give up her crown. He dipped down to claim a long kiss, fingers still miming the act to come. Sometimes he let his thumb stray to the place just beneath the testes, the sweetest spot, and Captain’s back bent like an archer’s bow and he cried out like his pleasure was a physical beast that he could urge on. No, beauty didn’t come _close_.

Without a word, Demane pulled out, took the Captain into his arms and exchanged their places once again. Sitting up in the grass, he placed the Captain astride him, knees on either side. It was their favourite way to make love; face to face, arms vining around each other’s bodies, close enough that a kiss was always only a breath away. Captain wasn’t smiling, not with his lips, but in every other way conceivable. He moved closer to brush their mouths together, and Demane felt his erection, wet and smooth, nudge up against his abdomen, same time those long fingers caressed the back of his neck. Feather light. Gossamer light. _Dust mote on the wind_ light. Desire like a monster wave capsizing a boat took him over.

Hand shaking as it never did in battle, he took the bottle to tip some more of the oil onto himself. Captain took his dick in hand, spreading it, and he hissed with how good it felt. Times like this, when pleasure laid all the other faculties of the brain flat out on they backs, the human instinct was to close one’s eyes, lose oneself in the bliss. But Demane would have cut off his own arm rather than miss the sight of the sequel; he had five senses and then some, and he intended to experience this with all of them.

Captain on his spread knees, like a supplicant. Body arched, one hand clenching like a stone on Demane’s shoulder. Where’s the other one at? Firmly round his dick, guiding it to the place itself, where everything was heat and tightness. Demane canted his hips up while the Captain ground down, a leisurely pace maintained by Demane’s hand on his hips. Their eyes locked, and Demane couldn’t look away, couldn’t look away, overcome as he was by the slick warmth and how much love he had for this man.

Thighs made a little smack as they came together, covered in sweat, at last.

Captain moaned; no fioritura, no glissando, no scale ever sounded so thrilling.

Demane didn’t let him rest; gripped him by the haunches, eased him up on his dick, but not all the way out, and then let him go back down again, slowly, slowly.

Blood pounded in his temples to the beat of his loins; _that grip!_

After thinking he was to spend their only night at Mother of Waters alone, Demane wanted to make this last, love the Captain one inch at a time. Easing him up and down, he reached for a kiss because it was so easy, those sweet red-brown lips so near. Their breaths comingled. Captain’s smelled like spice; it coursed through Demane’s nostrils with the scent of their coupling, sweat and soap and divinity.

“Isa…” he murmured, rocking him up and down. Just the one word, not going anywhere with it; it just felt fine to say your lover’s name while you sexed him slow, and his mouth hung open, and his eyes clung to yours like his godhood depended on it. Captain didn’t reply. Demane knew better than most just how many faculties this man had, and all of them were right now focused on the rhythm, the slide, all the subtleties of taking it. Or maybe he had a little bit to spare; that damn hand was still in his hair, playing with the naps that trailed onto his neck, brushing by with a butterfly touch. Demane rocked them together, feeling his balls tighten up and his heart race. He remembered the first time Captain had taken him into his mouth; sucked him until he was grabbing for the sheets, throwing his hands, making up new pantheons in his befuddled love cries. How was it that the Captain could make him feel the same way, with the same intensity, with just a touch on the neck?

 _Witchcraft_ , Faedou would probably call it as he called everything else, but Demane knew it by its true name; just another striation of love. He had it ba-a-ad.

Kisses on his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. His hands never left those slim hips, gently guiding them up and down to the point of pleasure, but not past it, not yet. Shouldn’t have been possible, but each sound the Captain made, each musical note of ecstasy, made him grow harder, feel like he could go longer. Captain himself was pointing sky high, bobbing and jerking on the come up and sit down, little pearls of white dripping from the tip. 

Demane dragged his thumbs along Captain’s hipbones as he pumped up, just for the pleasure of seeing his eyelids flutter. He tipped forward, letting their foreheads press together, and they spent several minutes just like that, in close, continual motion. Bringing him up and down on it, lost in how good and tight he felt, groaning at every clench. Sweat led short sticky lives in trails down their arms and legs.

“Aw, pop,” the Captain breathed, and the hand on his neck clenched. It was hard, but so very tender, and the naked pleasure on his face made Demane feel fit to cry. 

“You ready?” he asked, and seasoned the question with a kiss. No answer came upon pulling away, not in words, but the Captain ground into his lap harder than before. His breathing, erratic; his skin, electric. The wet head of his dick stuttered across the ridges of Demane’s abs as they moved together. The feel of that alone, the way Captain closed his eyes in response…

“Yeah, you ready,” he answered his own question, in a hot rough voice. Hands never having let up their grip on the Captain’s flanks, Demane dug in with his fingertips. Gentle enough that the Captain would barely feel it; hard enough that he wouldn’t be able to shed those robes in company in the days to come, lest one of the brothers see the bruised imprints of thick fingers, and get to wondering. His lover thus held in place, he upped the tempo of his thrust, deep long strokes that jerked the Captain up on contact, wrenched gasps from him like silks from a merchant’s pockets on a hot day.

Didn’t take long to capitulate into light, frenzy and aching pleasure from there. They kissed their way madly towards climax, open-mouthed, sharing air. Demane’s hands moved round to cup that well-loved ass, squeezing and moulding as he struck home inside him. He let a few of his fingers stray further in, to the very cleft where they were joined, and rub.

The Captain became a verse of contradictions. He stilled utterly, and then a great tremor started in his limbs. He used a hand to touch himself for the first time, and just the look of him in that moment filled Demane with rapture such as like he’d never get used to feeling. His balls tightened; Captain threw his head back, whites revealed; Demane pounded into him, just this side of forceful, and they climaxed within seconds of each other. Demane’s shout of pleasure was swept out of him like a northern wind.

They collapsed onto the grass, the electric spasms still tingling in Demane’s extremities. He held Captain fiercely to him, enjoying the heat and the smell of him for as long as he could. This part, immediately after, was one of his favourites, though it invariably never lasted long. Captain would be wanting a bath again, and then there was Master Suresh and the brothers to think about. Caravan would be heading out when the sun was at its peak.

Demane locked his arms loosely around the Captain’s waist; a hold he could easily break. When he was ready to leave, he could.

That was the trouble with Captain though. Brother was never _not_ ready. 

“Come on, D,” he said after the shortest minute of Demane’s life. He eased himself off, and away. “There’s a lot to do. Let’s get moving.”

Looming over him, the Captain looked taller than his actual height, which was considerable and then some. Naked and beautiful, he nonetheless had that game face on, that leader’s shine, the ‘call me Captain’ look. Sometimes when he wore that look he felt miles distant, like Demane didn’t even have any business _dreaming_ about him, much less touching him or loving him.

But he was still here, still present, and that slight white trickle down his inner thigh, that was the evidence of their joining, so lately inside of him. Demane shifted closer, cupped a hand round the back of Captain’s knee, and kissed his patella. Was it the press of lips that made an object more beautiful, or was the beauty bestowed by the mere desire to kiss, wanting to be closer? Either way, Demane kissed his knee again, all need for an answer erased by the fingers touching down on the crown of his head, then sinking to his roots.

“D…” Captain murmured. He sounded exasperated, but indulgent.

Demane rested his forehead on the Captain’s thigh. Blood cooling and warming at the same time, he thought of the things he wanted to say, knew he _had_ to say at some point, but could not yet bring himself to. 

_In the hills where I grew up, there’s a plot of land that I know. Pretty place, ‘nough space for a little hut. The yams grow plenty, got shade for days, and the honey bees make their homes nearby, but not too close. Could be there in a few months... but not without you. Cain't see myself nowhere without you._

They were on the tip of his tongue. He could say those words to the bronzed, wrinkled skin of the Captain’s knee right now, then look up into those eyes, a brown so deep and dark it was close to tar, and see what kind of response he would get.

Demane stroked the long thigh. The sun’s rays were insistent and hot, breaking through the canopy of foliage. They still painted the Captain’s skin with their bright fingers, the eager artisans of nature. The day ahead of them was long, and he was top full of such happiness it felt like inviting the worst kind of bad juju to bring up anything that might break the idyll.

He allowed Captain to pull him to his feet, stole a kiss when he realised he could get away with it, and when the Captain leaned into him, he stole some more. Naw, with the Wildeeps and all its attendant horrors stretching before them, and all the brothers to look out for, they had enough to worry about. The last precious minutes that had together were wafting away. 

“We’ve got to go, D, that’s enough,” the Captain said breathlessly, but his hands clung to Demane’s shoulders all the same. Gratification most sweet, to love and be loved like this. Demane kissed his man deep. Great Olorum lay at the end of the road. That kind of talking could wait.


End file.
